


For Want of a Flower Girl

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mardi Gras, Public Sex, Rimming, Story: The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 12:03:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John search for a missing gem during Mardi Gras.</p><p>For the Round 6 of LJ <a href="http://come-at-once.livejournal.com/"> Come_at_Once.</a> Prompt was 'for want of a nail.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Want of a Flower Girl

”WHERE IS SHERLOCK HOLMES?!”

John had him by the throat.

“Be cool, man. You, John, right? Yo’ man gave me the coat and phone to keep safe. Lestrade. NOPD.”

 John studied the man’s face, then loosened his grip. “Lestrade?”

“Of the creole Lestrades. Ol' Greggy never mention us? Nah, guess not. I’m after Blackie Sylvius and that Mazzy rock, too. Badge’s in the coat.”

John reached into the Belstaff, and once satisfied as to the man’s identity, stepped back. “Where is Sherlock? I lost him in the crowd over two hours ago.”

“Yo’ man undercover,” Lestrade said with a snicker. He produced Sherlock’s phone and flashed the screen at John.

**Mz st fnd. Syl In crwd. Eurydice. SH**

“He found the stone,” said John under his breath.

“And Sylvius. And that muthfucka’s somewhere ‘round here.”

“Eurydice isn’t a code of ours. Greek goddess of…” John scratched his head.

“Ain’t no code. Yo’ man joined a krewe. Talk ‘bout hidin’ in plain sight!” He laughed.

“A crew?”

Lestrade pointed over John’s shoulder.

John turned. His jaw dropped.

As the parade float came into view, John saw Sherlock leaning from the bow of the floating platform, tossing beads to the crowd. He wore a skin-tight shiny teal-coloured suit with matching high-heeled boots and antenna. A fountain of feathers sprouted from behind his head. His face, hair, and hands were dusted with silver and teal glitter. 

“Good Lord! Is he a space-man? Some kind of alien?” asked John.

“Damn if I know. But he sho’ can dance.”

While still throwing beads, Sherlock had begun to gyrate and grind to the _THUMP-THUMP-THUMP_ of the music. The crowd cheered.

As Sherlock wiggled and wriggled, the crowd, the case, and the city faded. For John, there was only the heavy bass beat and that beautiful, beautiful—

John felt a hard hand on his shoulder.

“Yo’ man’s somethin’ else, but I gotta catch this bastard Sylvius. He’s my one-way ticket to a cushy Interpol job in gay Par-ee!”

As the float drew nearer, Sherlock suddenly went still and wide-eyed.

“Wait a minute,” said John. He pushed his way to the parade line and grinned up at Sherlock and screaming,

“THROW ME SOMETHING, MISTER!”      

John grabbed the strand of beads and hurried back to Lestrade.

“There’s something on the back of the medallion. ‘V.C.’ That means he’s in danger. Sylvius must be in the crowd. Do you think he’d really—?”

“That muthafucka’d shoot the Pope in the middle of Easter mass,” said Lestrade gravely.

“What’s this? A word?”

Lestrade shook his head. “A map. X marks the spot. That’s where I’d be if I was gonna shoot ‘em, too. After the bridge, but just before the circle. They gotta slow up to make the turn. You know Sylvius on sight?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go.”

* * *

Suddenly the crowd erupted into deafening shouts. Every face turned.

Save one. 

John caught the flash of metal and launched himself full-bodied at the villain, wrenching the gun from his hand as he wrestled him to the ground.

“Gotcha!” cried Lestrade. He put the handcuffs on Sylvius and looked up. “Yo’ man sure know how to create a distraction,” he said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “Think Paris’s got one of ‘em? I sho’ hope so.”

John followed his gaze. Sherlock had stripped off his suit and was jumping and bumping in only the boots and a pair of tiny teal-coloured pants. His bare skin sparkled. The feather-fountain was fanned out into a pair of wings, and the antenna bobbed as he danced.

Now it was obvious, even to John.

“He’s a butterfly!” Something was being shoved into John's hand. He tore his eyes from Sherlock’s undulating form and looked down. Sherlock’s mobile.

“Hey, what about…?” John turned around.

But Lestrade and Sylvius were gone.

* * *

“You’re a brilliant dancer,” said John. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Followed you the whole rest of the route.”

Sherlock smirked. “I know. I was dancing for you, idiot.”

They grinned at each other for a long moment, then set off hand-in-hand down the street. Revellers swarmed around them like ants.

 “I’ve always loved dancing. I lived in hope for the right case,” said Sherlock. “Shall we go watch the fireworks?”

“You don’t want to change?”

Sherlock was still wearing the antenna, pants, boots, and folded wings. He lowered his voice. “Do you want me to change, John?”

“God, no.” John stopped and kissed the top of Sherlock’s hand. “I want to lick every speck of glitter off you.”

Suddenly, John was being dragged into a shadowy side street and shoved back against a wall. Sherlock’s lips were nibbling at his neck.

“Sherlock, this is not…”

“John, look around you, if a man-sized iridescent butterfly doesn’t raise any eyebrows. _This_ ,” Sherlock reached down and cupped the front of John’s trousers, “certainly won’t.”

John was eye-level with Sherlock’s nipples and the urge to bend his head forward and just…

There was a loud burst of drunken laughter in the street.

John turned his head and sighed.

“I can’t, Sherlock…”

“These,” Sherlock unfanned his wings, “hide a multitude of sins. Or at least I hope they will.” A silvery curtain encircled them. “How about a private dance, John?”

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock held out his arms and began to roll his hips to a distant beat. “Hands by your sides, I believe is the protocol.”

John licked his lips. “Sherlock…”

His second protest died a quick death, for he was the cobra and Sherlock’s slow-moving pelvis was the flute. Scratch that, his _cock_ was the cobra, the trouser-snake, as it were, raising its head higher with Sherlock’s every shimmy. He wanted to drown himself in Sherlock’s splendour. “You are so beautiful, Sherlock. My butter--” He stopped and coughed.

“Your butterfly?” teased Sherlock, shaking his head so that a sparkly cascade fell around them. “It’s okay, John. I am. Yours.”

His body rippled from chest to knee, and John groaned. “My beautiful, beautiful butterfly. Oh, God. Show me something, Mister.”

Sherlock chuckled. The beat morphed, and his hips swayed to the new, slower rhythm.  “I don’t believe that’s the correct phrase. But I’m already showing you quite a bit, so why don’t _you_ show _me_ something, Mister.”

John spoke thickly, “Why would a gorgeous creature like you want to look at something like me?”

“Oh, John. Because watching the man I love take down my would-be-assassin in broad daylight makes me want to _fuck him senseless_ at the first opportunity.”

John fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. Then Sherlock’s hands were on him, caressing his skin, gently pinching his nipples and moving southward…

“More,” demanded Sherlock.

John gave one anxious glance to see that their winged veil was still in place and unbuckled his belt. In seconds, his cock was free.

“God, John, I want to suck you. I want that luscious cock in my mouth. Right now. Brushing against the back of my throat…”

“Christ, Sherlock. No, love, I don’t want you on your knees in this…”

Sherlock covered John’s mouth with his. As they kissed, John felt a slick hand begin to stroke him.

A _very_ slick hand.

John broke the kiss to lick at Sherlock’s neck and ask, “Where on earth…?”

“Please, John. There are all these safe-sex flower girls wandering about with the baskets of condoms and lube and dental dams.”

“Bloody convenient.”

“I thought so. Now will you lean back and think of England?”

“I’ll think of my beautiful English butterfly,” said John as he leaned against the wall and gave himself over to Sherlock’s expert hand. “And what his gorgeous butterfly arse is going to taste like when I—oh, God! Sherlock, Sherlock…“ Sherlock was pulling him hard and fast; John watched a tiny rivulet of sweat wash a path down Sherlock’s chest and felt himself come undone.

Sherlock kissed at the corners of John’s mouth. “My hero.”

John sank his teeth into Sherlock’s neck as he came. Then he looked down and watched Sherlock clean him with a tissue. “Flower girl?” he asked.

Sherlock hummed.

“ _Bloody_ convenient.”

“I thought so.”

* * *

 As John set himself to rights, he felt a cool breeze and saw gooseflesh erupt on Sherlock’s arm. He frowned and said, “Lestrade—New Orleans Lestrade, that is—still has the Belstaff.”

“He’ll give it back.”

“I don’t know…”

“I’ve got something he wants even more.” Sherlock grinned.

“The stone! I completely forgot!”

“Quite the compliment. Thank you.”

“You hid it somewhere. We better go get it before some drunk tourist finds it.”

Sherlock huffed. “As if that’s a risk I’d run with a gem of that value.”

John blinked, then he eyed Sherlock’s mostly-nude body. “It’s in your…boots?”

Sherlock shook his head. Then he stared into John’s eyes. “Those safe-sex flower girls are _very_ convenient.”

“You put it _in_ you!”

“I don’t exactly have coat pockets, do I, John?!”

“Oh, Sherlock!” Then John considered, and his voice fell to a soft rumble. “I guess I’ll just have to retrieve it, won’t I?” He watched Sherlock’s eyes cloud a bit.

Then Sherlock swallowed and said, “I guess you will, Doctor.”

John kissed Sherlock’s lips. “Head to toe assessment, first.” He leaned forward and began lapping hungrily at Sherlock’s nipples, bathing them with gritty glitter until they pebbled.

Sherlock’s chest began to heave and, for once, his movements were jerky and clumsy. 

“John…”

“Steady, love.” John slipped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and then gripped his arse hard through the shorts. “It’s quite a feat, you managing these stilts, but I don’t want to lose you to a twisted ankle, here at the climax.” He took his hands from Sherlock’s arse and ran them along his chest and stomach and down to the bulge in his shorts.

“John!”

“I’ll get that precious stone out of you, slowly, carefully, might take quite a while. I bet you’ve hidden more lube on me.” John put a hand in one of his trouser pockets and then the other, discovering a plastic packet in each. “Of course you have.” He looked down at Sherlock’s straining cock and added. “But I don’t need lube for this.”

Then John was on his knees, yanking down Sherlock’s shorts and taking the head of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth.

Sherlock was panting. “John, I thought you said, you said…”

John pulled off and licked up on side of the shaft and then down the other. “I said I didn’t want my precious butterfly to dirty himself. I, on the other hand, would crawl through tunnels of rubbish to suck this cock.”

John bent and burrowed between Sherlock’s legs, licking and taking each of Sherlock’s sacs in his mouth in turn. Then he returned to Sherlock’s cock, kissing the head and tasting the slit as it leaked.

“John, John, John.” 

“I know, I know. Business, first. You’re a bit hobbled with those ridiculous shorts of yours, but I think I can manage.”

Sherlock angled his body so that his wings fell to the side.

John dipped behind them, stopping only to tweak Sherlock’s nipples and elicit a pleading whimper. Then he crouched forward at an impossibly awkward angle and bit the centre of Sherlock’s arse-cheek.

“John!”

“You’ve been shaking it all bloody afternoon!” retorted John before he bit the other cheek. Then he crooked his neck at a second impossibly awkward angle to lick a stripe along the juncture of arse and thigh.  

“John. John. Please.”

“My beautiful butterfly.”

John kissed each cheek, then spread them and kissed Sherlock’s rim. He lapped as eagerly at Sherlock’s hole as he had at his nipples, pushing his tongue deeper and deeper until it brushed latex. Then he slicked two fingers and toyed with Sherlock’s arse until he was satisfied and Sherlock was begging.

“John, please, please.”

John carefully extracted the small bundle and put it in his trouser pocket.

Sherlock’s voice was rough, but he managed, “John, that was incredibly professional of you, and quite, ah, for me…”

“Gives you ideas, does it?”

His voice turned harder. “Yes, the foremost being: _fuck me!_ ”

“I’d quite like to stay here. Your hand.”

John squeezed the rest of the lube into Sherlock’s hand and turned his full attention to Sherlock’s arse. He licked, he nibbled, he bit. He grasped Sherlock’s hips tightly as Sherlock thrust into his own hand.

Suddenly, there were voices.

“Look! Oh, it’s the butterfly! Oh!”

There was laughter. Then a chorus broke out.

“Go, Butterfly! Go, Butterfly! Go, Butterfly!”

“Good Lord,” whispered John.

“John!” cried Sherlock. “Don’t stop!”

More laughter. The chorus split into two.

“Go, John! Go, John! Go, John!”

“Go, Butterfly! Go Butterfly! Go Butterfly!”

John rose up slightly and, reaching forward at a third and most impossibly awkward angle, covered Sherlock’s hand with his own. They pumped together. Then John felt Sherlock’s whole body clench and saw white spurts decorated the grimy wall.

The chorus cheered.

“YEA! YEA! YEA!”

John stayed plastered to Sherlock until the voices died.

“They’ve gone, John.”

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done!”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

 “So what are you going to call this case?” asked Sherlock when they were both wrapped in the Belstaff, watching the pyrotechnical display overhead.

“’For Want of a Flower Girl’?” suggested John.

Sherlock huffed. “Really, John?”

“Well, you said if it wasn’t for the flower girl, you wouldn’t have been able to hide the gem. So, for want of a safe-sex flower girl, the case would’ve been lost!”

“How about something simple, like, ‘The Mazarin Stone’?”

“Oh, okay. But I’m going to have to change few details. No one’s going to believe this.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
